


Hop-5

by SkinSlave



Series: Reimagined Classics [1]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), POE Edgar Allan - Works
Genre: Bullying, Fire, How Do I Tag, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Murder, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: A reimagining of Edgar Allan Poe's Hop-Frog in a Golden Age of Grotesque AU.TW: Mean Manson, coercion to drink, shoving, burning death, captive audience, Pogo has 2 lines.
Series: Reimagined Classics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645744
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	Hop-5

I never knew anyone as quick to make a joke as Marilyn was. He seemed to live for it. To tell a hilarious story, the more obscene the better, was the surest way to get his favor. Because of that, his closest friends were known for their sense of humor. They all took after the singer, too, being bizarrely and provocatively dressed. Whether they developed a subversive style from the tendency to make jokes, or whether there is something about being strange that is inherently funny, I don't know. But the normality of the world never have struck a chord like the oddities.

Marilyn wasn't particularly concerned with the finer points of humor, a thing he called the "ghost of wit." He would gladly play a long con, quietly setting the stage, as long as the payoff was a devastating climax. He enjoyed shocking stories and one-liners, but physical comedy gave the biggest laughs. Practical jokes suited him.

In the great rock and roll scene, it was common to have a hierarchy in a band. Most frontmen targeted the newest or meekest members. They were given uncomfortable stage costumes and made to do unnecessarily complicated bits. And they were expected to always be ready to improvise, save face, and take the blame. In return, they could expect the groupies no one wanted and the honor of being seen with the band.

Of course Marilyn had his preferred patsy. He justified it to himself by emphasizing how  _ hard _ the job was. No one could blame him for blowing off a little steam with a newbie.

His target, however, wasn't just new. He was so easy to mess with because he was innocent and restrained. Most frontmen had to look outside the band for someone so easily-shocked. It only made the jokes more hilarious. So much so, that even when John 5 (the poor guitarist's name) was no longer the newest member, he remained the target of every prank.

Obviously, 5 wasn't his real name, but one given to him by Marilyn when he was hired. The reason was never clear, but it was likely some veiled insult. Maybe it was a way to keep him on the bottom rung forever. If so, it would've been an inside joke among the other band members, who were old hands at working with Marilyn and must have loved watching him struggle.

Though John didn't drink, smoke, or party with the others, he held his own. He seemed to spend every moment with his hands on his guitar and his eyes wide open. His talent as a musician, and his growing understanding of his co-workers, outweighed his perceived deficiency in fun. On stage, he seemed closer to a 1 than a 5.

I'm not sure, exactly, how John ended up in the band. It was probably a joke in itself. But it wasn't long before he was joined by another new recruit. Tim was also a blond guitarist of exquisite proportions and talent. It seemed Marilyn was collecting them.

Under the circumstances, it's no surprise that the guitarists hit it off. Soon they were close friends. While John was a valuable bandmember, he was still a whipping boy and had no sway with Marilyn. But Tim fit in. The others liked him. He used that to John's advantage whenever he could.

To commemorate some grand occasion, I forget what, Marilyn decided to throw a party. He met with Tim and John to gather ideas. John, especially, had an eye for the band's tastes, thanks to his constant attention. He turned out to be quite the idea man. And Marilyn had no problem passing the ideas off as his own.

On the day of the event, the party space had been decorated to Tim's specifications. The aesthetic was perfect. No doubt everyone involved was getting dressed to impress. Everyone but Marilyn and his entourage. Why they put off choosing outfits, I couldn't tell, unless they did it as a joke. It was more likely that they were preoccupied with stocking the bar and tormenting the help. In any case, they sent for Tim and John to help.

They found the group sulking and passing a bottle of vodka. Marilyn knew that John didn't drink. He didn't like the way it made him feel. But he loved his practical jokes, and constantly tried to trick and bully him into "relaxing."

"Come here, John," he said as the men came in. "I poured you a _soda_. Give us a toast to your friends. Then tell us what to wear. We're so bored with the same old costumes. Here. Take the drink. Loosen up."

John tried to muster a witty deflection, like he always did, but it was too much. It happened to be his birthday and the offer to toast to his friends only reminded him of the truth. None of them were his friends, save Tim. His cheeks reddened as he blinked back tears. With a bitter sigh, he took the cup from the frontman.

Marilyn laughed and watched the teetotaler drain the glass.

"See what I'm talking about? You already have a twinkle in your eye."

It was less a twinkle than a gleam. Because he never drank, the vodka hit immediately. It magnified his emotions and took away the filter that worked overtime around the band. Marilyn's friends stared at his odd expression and laughed at the prank.

"So what are we wearing?" asked Pogo.

"Yeah," Marilyn agreed. "Come on, tell us."

John laughed vacantly.

"Come  _ on _ !" Marilyn was losing his patience.

"I'm trying to think of something," John said, obviously fighting the alcohol.

"Trying?! What the fuck, 5? Too upright to think, I guess. Here."

He poured another cup of vodka and soda and held it out. John looked at it but his eyes wouldn't focus. Marilyn was really getting angry. Tim, knowing he had more leeway, leaned toward his ear.

"Come on, man. Leave him alone."

Marilyn seemed shocked that anyone would try to reign in his "joke." He glared at Tim for a long minute. Then, without saying anything, he shoved Tim to the ground and threw the drink in his face.

Tim got up, wiping his cheeks. He bit his lip to stay quiet. He didn't want to make it worse.

Everyone was silent. They could've heard a pin drop. Instead, they heard a harsh grating sound. It filled the room.

"The hell is that?" Marilyn demanded. "Is that you?!"

"How could it be me?" John asked innocently. He suddenly seemed to have recovered completely.

"I dunno," Pogo chimed in. "Something outside. Car, maybe?"

"Maybe… or this ingrate grinding his teeth. You got something to say?"

John laughed and held his hands up. He said there was no need to get upset. He'd drink as much as Marilyn wanted. It wasn't a big deal. The frontman seemed amused and poured another. John drank it as though it was water and turned his attention to the party.

"An idea just hit me," he said as though stone sober. "Somewhere between you pushing Tim and that car noise… When I was working with Rob, I had this idea he said was too risqué. I said all we needed was a few guys with brass balls…"

"Uh… right here!" Marilyn gestured around. "What is it?"

"Well, it's just a group costume, but it would definitely cause some shock and awe."

"We'll do it!"

The rest of the group agreed. They seemed to be feeling the vodka.

"Ok. I'll get the stuff together and be right back," John said.

"Perfect," Marilyn yelled after him. "Hey, 5! We'll make a man of you yet!"

Since it was getting late, they followed John's instructions without question. One by one they stripped down. He wrapped them in industrial plastic, barely obscuring their genitals. He gave them garish, 80s-inspired makeup and black wigs. He spent so much time - and so many cans of Aqua-Net - styling the wigs that they were sure they looked amazing.

Over the top of the plastic, John added fetish restraints. They each wore a different color of cheap vinyl collar and cuffs. A few lengths of chain and some padlocks would complete the look. They were chained to one another, with Marilyn at the front of the line. John wasn't wrong. They were a spectacle.

The main hall was set up according to Tim's vision, but with a little input from John. The chains hanging in the center of the room gave a menacing feel and mirrored the fetish-inspired show to come. To ensure that no one would be hurt, just in case, the other end of the chains were secured to one wall.

At John's suggestion, Marilyn and his company waited for midnight to make their entrance. On the dot, a large side door opened and they tottered in on huge platform heels. The crowd had a few minutes to take in their bizarre costumes as they made their way to the center of the room.

Once there, Marilyn began a mock ritual that drew gasps from the crowd. He lit a large, spherical glass lamp and held it up. They shrieked in unison. For the finalé, they chewed the blood capsules stashed in their cheeks and spat red all over one another and their guests.

While many partygoers cheered, some made for the doors. They were locked, adding a bit of real panic to the charade. Marilyn was obviously enjoying himself. So much so that he barely noticed John approaching. Quietly, the unassuming guitarist added one more padlock to connect one of the hanging chains to the chain that connected the practical jokers.

By some unseen mechanism, the chain began to rise. Soon their feet no longer touched the ground. Marilyn gripped the lamp tightly and continued to chant and scream. He would never pass up a chance to use the unexpected to his advantage. He'd just tell everyone later that it was his plan all along.

"Who is that?" John's voice boomed through the speaker system. "Who dares to crash our party?"

The men stopped chanting as the crowd burst into laughter. John had climbed onto the stage at the end of the room. Marilyn always insisted on having one, in case he got high enough to show off.

"Who are these witches?" John asked. "These entitled bitches?"

Another wave of laughter faded as he began flipping switches, turning dials. Marilyn, still hugging the lamp, looked on in aggravated confusion. The guests turned toward John, now standing with guitar in hand. They went silent.

A terrible scraping sound came through the speakers. It was the same sound that had attracted Marilyn's attention before. But this time, there was no questioning the source. It came from the perfect teeth of the guitarist, who pulled his lips back in a hateful snarl.

"Maybe they're with the band," he said coldly.

Maintaining eye contact with the hanging men, John stepped back from the mic stand. He began a solo, starting low and building. The crowd erupted. He didn't seem to notice, stringing riffs together, circling back, making his way to a very specific destination.

When he reached the high C, he held it and turned the volume up on his amp. The note rang through the vaulted room, far too loud to be enjoyed. Partygoers held their ears.

Finally, the globe in Marilyn's hands exploded. Kerosene soaked his front and the flame caught. Screaming, he batted at his chest. Liquifying plastic stuck to his hand. He thrashed and pulled at his friends, who quickly caught fire as well. They wailed as their wigs melted to their heads and shoulders. The others could only watch in horror.

"Oh, I see now." John sounded bored, leaning on the microphone. "That's Marilyn Manson, rock star and hero… who wouldn't bat an eye at drugging and assaulting his bandmates… and a couple of sycophants who applaud every step of the way. As for me… I'm just the target of every practical joke. And this is the last one."

A few men tried to climb the chains, though they couldn't have done much if they did. Falling shoes and broken glass made most people back up. Those who weren't transfixed on the flames again rushed the doors, elbowing past one another.

John stayed for a few moments, just until his vengeance was complete. The corpses swung from the ceiling, charred and brittle. They were nearly indistinguishable, a mass of charcoal. The room smelled like burned pork chops. Shouldering his guitar, John walked leisurely through a side door.

I suppose that Tim could've been his accomplice, raising the chain from a hidden place. And I suppose that they fled together, for neither was seen again.


End file.
